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After Wicklow lane the window of Madame Doyle, courtdress milliner, stopped him. He stood looking in at the two puckers stripped to their pelts and putting up their props. From the sidemirrors two mourning Masters Dignam gaped silently. Myler Keogh, Dublin's pet lamb, will meet sergeantmajor Bennett, the Portobello bruiser, for a purse of fifty sovereigns.
The welterweight sergeantmajor had tapped some lively claret in the previous mixup during which Keogh had been receivergeneral of rights and lefts, the artilleryman putting in some neat work on the pet's nose, and Myler came on looking groggy.
THE WHORES: Are you going far, queer fellow? How's your middle leg? Got a match on you? Eh, come here till I stiffen it for you. From a bulge of window curtains a gramophone rears a battered brazen trunk. THE SHEBEENKEEPER: Purdon street. Shilling a bottle of stout. Respectable woman. You ask for Carr. Just Carr. We are the boys. Of Wexford. PRIVATE COMPTON: Say! What price the sergeantmajor?
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